Can I Just Tell You?

Welcome to Can I Just Tell You?
Thanks for visiting!

Can I just tell you? This whole site needs an overhaul. My goodness! Thank you for visiting, come back again in a few weeks. I still appreciate your support. :)
 
I love your support. So many of you have encouraged me to keep writing all these years. I took a few years off because I wasn't feeling very confident about my skill and self-conscience about my subject matter. I really appreciate your gentle (sometimes haunting) push to get back on the proverbial horse. My favorite thing in the world is making someone laugh, typically at my own expense. It warms my heart to hear that my silly stories have helped you smile or laugh out loud when you felt like that's the last thing you could do.

 

I also really appreciate the support of many boyfriends who read through my entire collection of crazy and still chose to continue dating. I'm not sure if you felt bad for me or found me charming. Regardless, thanks for the encouragement.

 

I'm going to change things up a little bit. As you may have guessed, from some of my posts, I have aspirations of writing a book. (Or two, three, or four… We'll see.) Anyway, all of my stories, up to this point 8/3/15, are true and happened to me. I'm thinking about adding some characters to my stories and playing around with fiction writing. You'll be able to tell the real stories from fiction. I think. ;-)

 

I'm not sure what my books are going to be like, yet. I've always enjoyed reading fiction but, maybe non-fiction is the right path for me. I'm pretty confident with the voice I've developed in telling my silly stories and would like to continue to write in that tone. I know I'm going to start off slow because, as you know, self-discipline has never been one of my stronger qualities. I may try to play around with other subjects, too. Stay tuned.

 

This site is meant to make you laugh through stories that you may be able to relate to whether it's sour love, a cooking disaster, a social faux-pas, etc. So, bear with me as I stumble through my experiences, hopefully, more gracefully than the actual event, but just as funny, and either share the lesson or just make you laugh out loud.

If there's ever a story that really hits your funny bone or makes your day, let me know. I'd love to hear from you.

So, sit back, put on your reading glasses and enjoy.

Please, take a minute to sign my guest book. It seems I have readers from around the world. I'd be more than happy to put you on an update list so you'll know when I have a new post. Cheers!

  

Click here for a little more fun.

Archive Newer | Older

Thursday, August 20, 2015

Mud

I was in California visiting Tooty MacDoogle. Tooty (not her real name. Obviously. She's just a tooter/fahta.) It's always an adventure visiting her, this time was no different. We've been friends since high school and one of my fondest memories was when we (she) got stuck in chicken wire while we were at someone's house in East Jesus for an underage drinking party. We both had to pee and neither one of us was down with peeing in the woods so, we were making the trek to the house to find a real bathroom. Anyway, half way through the dark field we stumbled across a chicken wire fence and fell. We were laughing so hard, she peed her pants right there. Thank God for my bladder of steel or I would have peed, too. That would have had a lasting effect on my love life, although, I'm still single at 40ish so, I suppose it wouldn't have made that much of a difference.

 

Truth be told, as I put pen to paper/fingers to keyboard, I could write a full chapter on the craziness with Tooty. I may do that. Not today, though.

 

As you know, I'm not opposed to traveling alone anywhere. She had to work during a lot of my visit but offered her car if I wanted to go anywhere, which I wholeheartedly and gratefully accepted. I decided to take a tour of the Sonoma and Napa region. She lived in Sonoma, there is a small mountain range that separates the two areas. Another friend I had stopped to have a beer with told me about a spa on the way to Napa that offers mud baths. He said it was awesome and I should check it out. Cassandra Salon & Spa is currently managing my retirement account, which I will never have access to. I've never met a spa I didn't like so I made a reservation. I'll tell you up front, I'm so glad I went alone rather than with Tooty.

 

When I got there, I had to pay up front. It was around $90. Not cheap and non-refundable. I planned to do the mud baths and massage. It was lava mud which is really good at removing all toxins from your body. Now, I've never smoked a cigarette in my life, I hardly drink, and rarely consume anything that has more than 3 ingredients, all of which I can recognize. So, I'm not sure what toxins I needed to get out of my body but I did it the last time I went to Colorado and I left feeling awesome. Those were salt caves but, close enough.

 

I got a tour of the facilities and was led to the locker room. The lovely woman gave me a robe and handed me keys  on a bracelet for my locker. She said to make sure I hung onto my keys. (Did she know I had a problem with forgetting keys??) I was instructed to undress, put on the robe, and wait for an attendant to come get me. I did as I was told but kept my underpants on, I saw pictures of the mud bathtubs and thought it best to leave a layer, albeit thin, between me and my privates.

 

I casually chatted with the Spanish lady who escorted me to my worst nightmare, unbeknownst to me, of course. When we stepped into the room, the scene slowly unfolded before me. It was a giant room with a line of copper tubs, some filled with mud and some with clean water. There were showers without curtains, hearty Spanish women, fully clothed, with rubber boots, and then there were naked women in the various tubs. Uh oh, I thought. This is not for the faint of heart or the modest New Englander. As my eyes got wider, my Spanish escort, in a thick accent, said, "Hand me your rrrrrrobe." Now, I'm not fresh. Especially to anyone bigger than me. I replied, "My keys?" as I reached down to my wrist and tugged at the keys. She gave me a dirty look and repeated her request. Now, role the "r" a lot when you say it to yourself again. Tell me that doesn't sound like "keys."

 

Ugh. I asked her again if she wanted my keys. She gave me a look that she meant business and put her hand out to take my robe. Good Lord. Can I just tell you? I was wearing old underwear! I certainly wasn't going to wear a good pair in that mud. I mumbled about the panties, took them off quick and shoved them in my robe pocket as I handed over my last shred of dignity. Then, I was instructed to get in the shower. Without a shower curtain! Of course, at this point, I had managed to make a scene. Clearly, I was the only New Englander in the room because THAT is definitely not our style. Everyone was looking. I was mortified. I walked to the tub casually trying to cover my crotch and boobs. Super cool, that's how I roll.

 

I climbed into the tub and they filled it with lava mud that's supposed to make you relax. My shoulders were permanently attached to my ear lobes by that point. There was no relaxation in sight for me. The whole time I was cursing out my friend (from New England!) (but, a guy. Shame on him!) for suggesting this ridiculousness. Even when the tub was completely filled with mud, I couldn't relax. I was too busy squeezing my legs together so as not to get any mud in my uterus.

 

The mud bath was finally over, the next step in purgatory was to the shower. A nice young Spanish lady had to take a garden hose and rinse the mud off me. Awesome, I thought, now we get to pretend I'm a dog that got poop on it. After that point, I just went with it. I had to get in a clean tub and relax for 15 minutes, hop in the steam room, then go get my massage. Super relaxing. Especially when I had to wonder if my shoulders would every release my neck again. It was like they had it in a choke hold.

 

You'd think I'd want to forget about my experience as soon as possible. Nope, I ended up buying a cucumber lotion as a memento of my misadventure. When I got to the car, I finally relaxed. My shoulders released and I started laughing until tears were running down my cheeks. I called the idiot friend who suggested the place and told him he should be ashamed of himself. Had Tooty been there, we would have drowned in the mud from sheer embarrassment laughter.

 

When you find yourself in a public exercise park, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, with someone singing their rendition of Olivia Newton John's  Let's Get Physical at the top of their lungs, you know you're in good company and an adventure is bound to happen. That's how the week started with Tooty. She's a keeper. Not in the mud, though.

Thu, August 20, 2015 | link          Comments

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Funny

As you know, I love golf. Sort of. I have been known to brag about my close to perfectly straight drive (that only goes 50 to 100 yards, on a good day.) However, I always like to hear a man I'm dating golfs. Why? I'm always looking to improve some aspect of my life. My golf game is one of them.

 

In fact, as I'm getting older and getting a little more particular about who I spend my time with, especially now that I know I have many choices via Tinder, I'm looking at what would make me choose one man vs. another provided they are both interested in me, of course. I was visiting with two women who I've known for 15 years or more. I was telling them about Tinder, how it works, and what is happening in my love life. They both agreed it was like shopping and wholeheartedly approved.

 

In 3 weeks, I've been on 6 dates, met 3 men in person, and one is actively texting and expressing exceptionally high interest. (Don't get me started on how much I hate men who only text. Seriously. Grow a pair. Why I keep responding I can only blame on gluttony and boredom.) It's down to 2 men, at this point. (To give you a little background, my last real date was over 7 months ago. Shameful! I know. I just didn't want to go online. It seems like the only people online are the ones who can't find a date. Cue the violin and face the mirror. Hence, Tinder.)

 

Both men are, essentially, equal. Both are tall, handsome, smart, and funny. And, more importantly, live closer to my office than I do. One is a former marine, business owner, and has aspirations of getting on to American Ninja Warrior. I can't even begin to tell you how much I would like to see him naked. Truth. Have you seen that show? Those people are ripped. Seriously. I can barely get to three push-ups and I really try (a little bit. See "work ethic" in one of my previous posts.) They both have two children, I wouldn't have to worry about not being able to have a child if that was the case. However, neither seems to want more kids. If it seems like things are going to work out, for real, with either of them, I'm going to have to do a deep dive soul searching to make sure I'm really okay with giving up. As I'm writing, I'm tearing up a tiny bit at the thought of it. That is a bummer. It's a whole other bag of worms or "can I just tell you?" I digress.

 

Anyway, one golfs. Really well. And, he's not playing fair. He sent me a picture of him and his ADORABLE two little boys. Honestly, I melted when I saw the picture. I don't want to meet them anytime soon because I know it's going to be love at first site. The other one has teenagers. I love teenagers. I taught high school forever and teens usually like me. A lot. Not like that. They just typically think I'm funny. Because I am.

 

Teenagers can be tough though, especially a girl. His oldest is a 14 year old girl. I haven't seen pictures yet so, I'm not sure if they're cute kids. I know I'm a terrible human being. If I saw a cute guy on Tinder and started to swipe through his pictures and discovered his kids are on the homely side, I won't even give him a second thought. Why? Because he a) either has lousy taste in women or b) has bad genes. I don't want any part in that.

 

Back to my decisions… I was telling my mom about both dates last night. Surprisingly, my mom agreed with me that I should keep dating both. Very progressive of her and unusual. For her. Anyway, I started to explain that one would make me better, generally speaking. The other, I would make better. She was cheering for the one I would make better. Of course. (Well documented, my mom is married to her 5th child.)

 

Can I just tell you? I know which one I'm cheering for; nothing is more endearing to me then someone who not only laughs at my jokes but also his own; because he knows he's funny, too. And golfs.

Tue, August 18, 2015 | link          Comments

Son of a Fish

Last night, I was talking to my musician “friend” as he was driving home from a gig. He got stuck in a weird traffic situation and exclaimed, “Son of a fish!” (I write “exclaimed” but he never raises his voice so there was really only a slight emphasis on “son” and “fish” which meant he was annoyed. Had I been driving in a similar situation, one might hear a litany of swear words or some sort of “clearly annoyed” sounds, depending on how many other annoyances had led up to that one.)

While I was teaching high school, I remember walking down the crowded halls and occasionally hearing an “F-Bomb.” It seemed like time always stopped. All of a sudden, the noisy hallway would go silent and all eyes would land on the foul-mouthed culprit. Depending on my mood (truth be told) and the context of the offense, the repercussions ranged anywhere from hairy eyeball look over matronly glasses to “Excuse me, Mr. or Miss So-and-So, plan on stopping by my classroom at the end of the day today.”

Can I just tell you? Now, I’m in an environment where “F-Bombs” are part of daily conversation. The first time I heard it echoing over the cubicles, I broke out into a cold sweat searching for pink slips…

I only gave one detention for swearing. It was my first one, the student was in the 7th grade, I was the sub and he was clearly testing how far he could push… I only gave 6 detentions in my 7 years of teaching and 1 was for passing gas. (It was habitual, very inappropriate and distracting to the other students.)

I dated a clown once (another true story that I enjoy telling but, not as much as the Elvis story) who would say, “Holy Potato Chips!” instead of using foul language. At first, I thought it was a little endearing. After 3 dates, it was, hands-down, the most annoying thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

For some reason, “Son of a fish” sounds a little more appealing…

I’m starting to think the R&B singer part of him is starting to affect me. He could ask, “Do you want a Big Mac or Whopper?” with that R&B voice of his and I’d melt a little bit.

Tue, August 18, 2015 | link          Comments

Therapy

So, can I just tell you? I know this is sort of a taboo subject but I just started therapy. I’ve been seriously considering moving to the West Coast. LA, to be exact, and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t having a mental breakdown.

My therapist doesn’t seem to think I am so, that’s a good start. I’ve only been once before, when my dad passed away in 2005. I went for about 3 weeks then, quit my very secure teaching job (I had tenure), sold my house (completely renovated) and moved to a tiny apartment in Boston without a job. Both my sister and my mom saw the apartment right before I said, “I’ll take it!” and both were equally shocked. The stairwell smelled like pee, the ceiling was falling (I don’t know what was going on up there!) and there was a furnace in the center of the bedroom.

To set the stage: I’ve been described, by more than a few people, as fastidious and germ-conscience.

My mom immediately assured me that I wouldn’t be happy there because I’m “not accustomed to living like that.” I countered with, “Location, location, location.” (She’s a realtor.)

Now, I’m in a beautiful apartment in the North End with a view of the Rose Kennedy Park on one side and the Clock Tower Marriott on the other. I couldn’t ask for a better location. I could ask for a parking space, washer and dryer, more insulated windows…

I earn a really good paycheck selling a great product yet here I am thinking about (obsessing over, actually) moving across the country to a city famous for pantiless princesses, gigolos, face lifts and fake boobs. All while still searching for Mr. Right.

Hmm. Am I having a mental breakdown? I also want to start voice lessons…

Paparazzi here I come!!

Tue, August 18, 2015 | link          Comments

Philly

So, I waited to pack until the night before and didn’t end up getting to bed until after 2am. Our flight was for 11am in RI. Needless to say, I was running a few minutes late in the morning. The flight was quick and painless; we were both thrilled to be there. Our hotel room was on the 19th floor with a great view of the city and two beds. Everything seemed perfect…

We got the famous cheese steak from Pat’s with onions and cheese whiz. I know, sounds gross but it was one of the best things I’ve ever consumed that wasn’t a dessert. We walked back to the hotel, it was balmy that day and a little misty but not too bad. We stopped at the Ritz for champagne before dinner. He made reservations at a really romantic place, it took my breath away when I checked it out online. They told him we could walk from the hotel….

There was a line for the taxi cabs so, we set out on foot. I didn’t mind, I was dressed for baseball in late October in a long sleeve turtleneck wool sweater with my favorite Dave Matthews t-shirt as a liner, winter coat and sneakers. I was dressed appropriately for the game and looked nice for the restaurant. My hair and makeup made up for the sneakers.

Little did I know his sense of direction is somewhat lacking. Had I known, I would have made an effort to get my bearings on our location. I’m not sure if I mentioned I’m the oldest of 7 and have a need for a little bit of control. For some reason, I thought it may be a good idea to let go of the reigns and relax this particular weekend.

We got halfway to somewhere and the sky opened. The downpour put my shower water pressure to shame. We made a dash for cover then got directions to the restaurant and sprinted so as not to miss our reservation. Of course, there wasn’t a cab in sight. By the time we got there, I felt like a drowned rat. My hair was completely matted and I could feel mascara making it’s way down my chin. The hostess looked horrified. (“It can’t be that bad,” I thought but, nonetheless, I was still beside myself.) We inched our way to the table; I sat for a second then made a bee-line to the ladies room to tidy up.

Can I just tell you? When I ever walked in and saw the woman in the mirror, I almost screamed. My face was sweating profusely. I know it’s my moisturizer; I can’t lay it on too thick when I go to the gym or that happens. As I’ve mentioned I’m not much of a sweater. When I do perspire, it’s because I have WAY overexerted myself. That must have been the sprinting, I don’t do that often. Plus, the bathroom was like a sauna. I had to peel my clothes off and fan myself for a few minutes to stop sweating. Most of my makeup was gone and there was no help in sight for my hair. I had to go back up to the table in my t-shirt holding my sweater. Talk about embarrassing. Fortunately, I had a glass of wine waiting for me.

As I was drinking the wine, he asked if I was tired. I said, “A little, why?” He countered with, “You have bags under your eyes.” Seriously?! Had I not felt delirious, I would have hurled my baguette at him. Fortunately, that was followed with an arsenal of compliments like, “you look great, you have beach hair and my dad had bags under his eyes, I like it…”

I kept drinking. I knew I’d feel better eventually.

The next day was lovely. We stopped at the Four Seasons for another round of Philly Cheese Steaks before taking a romantic stroll downtown towards Love Park and I noticed a flock of some awful birds flying above us… All of a sudden, I was fired upon and hit, square on the top of my head. I stopped short in my tracks to gasp and declare, “No way!” He hadn’t noticed the offense. When I told him, he ran for cover and immediately asked if any got on him.

Of course, my first thought after, “I can’t (litany of swear words) believe that just happened to me!” was, “Would my soul mate do that?” I may need to keep looking.

Am I unreasonable?

Tue, August 18, 2015 | link          Comments

August 23

Can I just tell you? I’m 36 today at 5:09pm, to be exact. I couldn’t sleep last night to save my life because I had this question churning in my head. Am I too picky?

As I was getting a facial last month my esthetician relayed a story to me that has been haunting me off and on for weeks. She told me about her aunt who was an attractive, successful woman who never married. She asked her about it one day and her aunt likened it to walking through a corn field and picking through many ears of corn thinking, “no, that one isn’t quite right. No, not that one either…” until she came out the other side of the field empty handed.

My story with the bar owner was starting to unfold like a sappy romance novel. I was thrilled; I thought it was going to be perfect fodder for my book. However, one of the main characters, unfortunately, has a debilitating inability to communicate. As much as I’d like to pen a romance in my life, I decided that just doesn’t cut it for me. C’est la vie.

Of course, the same usual suspects have popped back into my life. My bartender friend has reworked his campaign around my favorite sport (to play), golf. I’ve neglected my game all summer. Very sad. He began with a text message and, true to form, will undoubtedly continue rather than taking a minute to put the phone to his ear and call. He can’t possibly imagine how much that annoys me or else he’d never have the nerve to invite me to visit the bar (to pay for my own drinks) while he’s working again. Why do men do that? I hate that. Grow a pair and call. Please.

My esthetician suggested I make a list of what I’m looking for. I’ll have to start thinking about that tomorrow.

Tue, August 18, 2015 | link          Comments

Saturday Night

So, it’s Saturday night and I just finished “reading” this week’s People and Us Weekly. I’m totally down on all the celebrity gossip, I know exactly who is sleeping with who, how many months Justin has been dating Jessica (17 and “still going strong,”) that Benji walks Paris’ dog and Mario Lopez Bares All is completely disgusting. Actually, “incredibly cheesy” is the more accurate description.

I’m also preparing myself for the Stevie Wonder concert tomorrow night; I’ve listened to the Definitive Collection at least 5 times today. Cherie Amour is hands-down my favorite and has been on repeat several times. Does anyone else do that? I could hear that song 10 times in a row and still not get sick of it, maybe because I’m daydreaming about someone of interest singing it to me on our wedding day… (I would be his at that point, of course.)

Speaking of wedding day, I’m not getting any closer. I’ve been “dating” 4 men and yet, here I am diligently typing away at 10:30 on a Saturday night. What’s up with that?

One invited me to the beer festival to hang out and get “wasted” with him and his friends this afternoon. At 35, I just didn’t find that appealing so, I declined.

Another, is bartending which could be fun to hang out at the bar chatting (I always meet someone really interesting in that situation) but not when I have to pay for every drink. Now, excuse me for being presumptuous but, this man who claims he wants to date me doesn’t seem to get the unspoken drink rule, “If you’re interested, buy her a drink.” Honestly, I don’t know why I even give him the time of day other than he’s pleasant to talk to and I’m tired of being single.

I met another prospect most recently while bartending. I thought he may have the most promise. He has a good job and lives close by (the first two live a half hour to an hour away.) He’s also handsome, has a European accent and seems really smart and cultured.

Well, he thought it would be a good idea to take me to the Hyatt for our first date. Side note: how many women think to wear flats on first date, unless potential mate is of Napoleonesque stature? We walked about 1.2 miles to the Hyatt. He said it was a new place with dining outside and views of the city… It was dining on the 4th floor with a view of the building next door and a drink and appetizers-only menu that we enjoyed on lawn furniture hovering over a coffee table. We walked back 1.2 miles to the North End and had cocktails at the kind of restaurant we should have started with and I paid. It’s been 4 days since I’ve seen him and he’s wondering, via text, if I miss him yet. No.

My family thinks I’m too picky.

The fourth, and my favorite, is at a bachelor weekend in Montreal. I’m almost positive that’s the closest City of Sin to New England… Am I nervous? No. His idea of a date lately has been to go watch one of his shows. He sings and plays the guitar for work.

I’ve known him the longest. We met almost two years ago. When we first started dating, my more practical self had just gotten out of a high-passion, short-lived relationship with an Elvis impersonator. (Yes, true story that I love telling at every opportune moment.) The last thing I wanted was to date another entertainer! However, he was persistent and has a really cool, calm energy about him that was really comforting at the time. Unfortunately, he had to travel for work out of the country for 6 weeks so I started dating someone a little more practical… A man 8 years my junior who never had a relationship last longer than 3 months. That’s about how long I lasted with him.

So, can I just tell you? Here I am juggling the singer, the business-man, the bartender, and the beer swigger… daydreaming over Cherie Amour on a Saturday night instead of heading out sporting my new, amazing cleavage bra that I got for a steal at the Gap!

Maybe I should try the online dating…

Tue, August 18, 2015 | link          Comments

Unwelcome Guest

I felt awfully chatty this morning and spent a leisurely morning on the phone. (I’m really liking my bar owner.) As I finished what I thought would be my last call before I hopped in the shower, I had to stop short, gasp then scream. There it was, scurrying around the pile of shoes in my kitchen, a grey little Fievel Mousekewitz. I nearly had a heart attack even though he was no bigger than my thumb (excluding his tail, of course.)

Can I just tell you? I hate that! I know I am 8 million times bigger than a mouse but they still scare the crap out of me. The last time I had something like that in the house, it had wings. Yes, a bat.

I had already gone to bed; I was teaching at the time, I was awoken by the phone ringing in my room. All I could think was, “who the heck is calling me at 11pm on a school night??” It was my roommate calling from the deck using my cell phone to tell me not to panic. So, what did I do? I sat up in a panic.

She was calling to ask if I could close her bedroom door because there was a bat flying up and down the hallway. Uhh, no. That would mean I would have to leave my bedroom and, at that point, I had already placed towels under the door, stuffed all my hair into my turned up collar on my robe and had a sunhat on my head. (My mom’s chilling words telling me that “if [I] didn’t brush that hair of mine, a bat would make a nest in it!” still haunt me today. My hair is always nicely coiffed now, ask anybody.) Anyway, my heart was in my throat because I owned the house, it was entirely my responsibility to get the bat out!

My first plan was to call the police. I called the non-emergency line and made sure I started with, “this probably isn’t an emergency but…” The woman who answered was so irate when I explained my dilemma. (I can’t imagine why?) Then, I thought, animal rescue… nope, too late at night and the yellow pages was in the kitchen.

It was up to me.

I asked my roommate to tap on the window and whistle to see if would fly out. Maybe it would think she was a relative… She wanted no part in that. (I really couldn’t blame her; I would have been waiting in my car with the windows up and the doors locked.)

I had to venture into the dark hallway and face the bat. All I could think was, what on earth was I going to do with the thing if I catch it, I mean, besides scream? I certainly wasn’t going to kill it! I only had a bath towel as a weapon. My plan was to throw the towel on top of him and gather him up in it and just toss it outside. Seriously.

So, imagine this, I’m wrapped from head to toe in a bathrobe (I put on socks and shoes too), my neck wrapped with a thick towel, my hair COMPLETELY covered and I’m sneaking down the hallway holding up a medium size bath towel. (If you don’t think I was kicking myself for not buying the jumbo-sized towels, you are so wrong.) I made sure all the bedroom doors were closed and tip-toed into the living room.

Well, can I just tell you? All of a sudden, he darted towards me flying up and down the hallway over my head! The neighbors must have thought Freddie Kreuger came in through the back door because anyone within 100 yards heard a piercing (continuous) scream, running then the slamming of a door. Honestly, I thought I was having a heart attack.

Meanwhile, my roommate was peeing her pants on the deck. She could hardly breathe she was laughing so hard. Real funny.

I broke down; I had to call my parents. My mom thought it was funny too. That must be where I get all my compassion and empathy…

By the time they got there, the little bat trapped himself in the window and my step dad waltzed in and closed it. I could have done that too if the little critter didn’t chase me down the hallway!

Needless to say, when little Fievel scurried across my kitchen; the first person I called was my mom. The first words out her mouth…”who are you going to call if you go to LA?”

Good point. Touché. I guess I’m going to have to get a little more serious about dating…

Fievel vanished under my dishwasher and has seemed to disappear from the planet.

Hmm, now that I think of it, I think I have just coined a new name for some of the men I’ve dated: Fievel.

Tue, August 18, 2015 | link          Comments

Star Trek

I had lunch with a very dear friend the other day. Her stepson, Christopher, was killed in a helicopter crash recently, he was my age. He had discovered he had a 16 year old daughter 4 years before his death. The discovery had given his life meaning and was starting to build a relationship with her. Apparently, it had been going really well.

I have had the sad reality of knowing more than one mom who had to bury a child. Its heart wrenching. They say the mother will never be the same after the death of a child. I believe that to be true. With any great love loss, there’s always a little bit of your heart that goes missing. My friend is no different. She loved her stepson like he was her own child, she married his father when Christopher was still a young child and watched him grow to be a fun-loving and caring brother to their next two daughters to come along.

Her daughters are grown now and took their mom, my friend, for a girl’s weekend in Boston. I was so happy to get the invite to join them for lunch on their last day in the city. The start of the conversation was mostly catch-up talk. At the lull in the conversation, I saw in her eyes that her mind drifted to Christopher.

I took her hand and asked her to tell me about him. She glowed telling me about her wonderful son. I gathered from our conversation he was a kind and generous soul with a perfect sparkle of mischief. His sisters adored him and he showered them with love. He was athletic and loved adventure, his work had him in a helicopter on a regular basis. (Sounded pretty exciting to me, too.)

On the way to the funeral, his two sisters stopped into a coffee shop to pay for the next 50 cups of coffee in honor of their brother. I immediately teared up. She then dryly stated that they walked into the funeral home to an 8×10 picture of William Shatner as Captain Kirk and Christopher’s birth mother in a Star Trek outfit. I gasped and asked, “Why?!” She said the mother was telling everyone, “Christopher was named after a Star Trek character.” “Was he?” I asked. (Shocked.)

My poor friend. Grief held her tightly as she whispered, “No, he was named after A. A. Milne’s Christopher Robin.” (Her husband’s nickname for her is Winnie the Pooh.) At that point we both had tears rolling down our cheeks. We sat quietly for a few minutes before she continued.

Christopher’s mom left him when he was two and never seemed to care about building a relationship with him. I know there are always two sides to a story and I’m definitely biased. Honestly, I don’t know a kinder person than my friend quietly trying to compose herself next to me. However, the more the story unfolded the more unfortunate it seemed.

Can I just tell you? His death included a $5 million insurance policy that would go to next of kin. It’s unknown if the daughter is really his, there needs to be a DNA test. The Star Trek mother is broke and discouraging the girl from the testing because the insurance would go to her.

Shame on her. What would Mr. Spock say?

Tue, August 18, 2015 | link          Comments

Monday, August 17, 2015

Maybe?

Can I just tell you? While I was daydreaming about Flavio, someone I met in Anaheim sent me an email. As you may know, Anaheim is in California and while California has everything an outdoor enthusiast could ask for, it's best known for its beaches. Anaheim is about an hour from the ocean. Betty, I still hate you.

 

The gentleman that reached out let me know he would be at the dinner I was attending Thursday night and was hoping we would get to spend some time together while I was in Chicago this weekend. This guy is a little different from Flavio. He's, at least, 10 years my senior and a CEO of a major company. In fact, this is his second time being CEO and owner. He sold his first company for a cool $20 million. He assured me when telling the story that he didn't get all of it but "a good portion." So, that's good, I thought. And, truth be told, the idea of dating a millionaire made me slightly giddy. Although, not giddy enough for me to want to put my hands all over him like I did Flavio. I know, such a harlot. I can't help myself. I still prefer the term, "minx."

 

Betty did say the gentleman ended his last relationship because the woman cheated on him and he was heartbroken. Argh! Again, questioning Betty's validity!

 

So, anyway, apparently the CEO has some ideas on fun parties to go to while we're in Chicago. I'm game. Why not? Right? Stay tuned.

Mon, August 17, 2015 | link          Comments

Flavio

Betty, I hate you. I went back to Betty, the psychic (Top 100 in USA, according to someone.) I saw her again, in March, against my better judgement. My addicted-to-psychics friend listened to my last recording from my previous session with her and insisted Betty was right about most of it. She's been pressuring me to go so, I folded and booked the appointment.

 

She started with letting me know my dad, who passed away in 2005, was in a good heaven and is watching over me. Then, she told me not to fret about last year's lost love, that I took a wrong turn somewhere (maybe because she told me he was my soul mate and me, like an idiot, believed her!), and he wasn't the one. Clearly.

 

Can I just tell you? She struck again. Betty said I'd meet the right guy by the water in May. She then added that time was the toughest thing to predict. Hmm, I thought, my sister's wedding is in May by the ocean… I was immediately annoyed with myself for even considering any ounce of truth in a psychic's prediction.

 

Wouldn't you know it? Of course, there was a tall, dark haired, hot, single guy at the wedding. There were quite a few, to tell you the truth. One zeroed in on me and stayed close all weekend. My parents LOVED him and BOTH gushed about how handsome he is and how nice it would be to have an electrician in the family. (He's an electrician.) Now, if you knew my stepdad/my mom's 5th child, you would know that's weird. He referred to him as "Flavio." I said, "You mean, Fabio?" He nodded his head and said, "Ya, Flavio. The one that got hit in the head on a roller coaster. Did you see that? It was great!" ohmygod.

 

To make matters worse, a 70+ year old guy, who sat next to us for two hours at the hotel bar while he watched the hockey playoff game, chimed in as we were leaving to go to another party. "You two are soul mates. I've been watching you two and I know. She's a keeper, you can tell she's a sweetheart (to him). He is completely in love (to me)." He went on and on as his daughter, sitting next to him, told him to mind his own business.

 

Per my life, nothing can be perfect, except my job. He's much younger. Again. A year younger than the last one and super close to his family who's probably dying for him to have children. When my parents were trying to get the scoop on whether I was interested in him, I explained the age difference was probably an issue. They said, in sync, "don't worry about it."

 

For once, I may heed their advice. We'll see. My dad did tell me to marry an electrician before he died… Betty, I still hate you.

Mon, August 17, 2015 | link          Comments


Archive Newer | Older

I'll make changes to this site on a regular basis, sharing news, views, experiences, photos...whatever occurs to me. Check back often!


counter hit make